conversation

Gallery

Sometimes I’ll wake up on a Sunday to some weird text from SG and I’m glad our friendship has gotten to that place. But he needs a new line already. (It was never effective to begin with.)

Game

Chat

Me: I think [fairly successful colleague] likes me because I act like I’m not that impressed with him.
Sir: Wow, Ivy.
Sir: Got that game strong babe.
Me: Listen, you have no idea. I used to get it good before I settled down with your little butt.
Sir: Haha.
Sir: I didn’t need any game to get you.
Sir: You just fell into my life oops.

This is literally what we talk about.

Chat

Craftsmate: Your little asshole is SO CUTE.
Craftsmate: I wanna show you in a mirror or something.
Craftsmate: Because you never get that perspective.
Craftsmate: It’s this cute little pink-tan puckered little thing with the little pink wrinkles all shiny and soft looking.
Me: I KNOW WHAT MY BUTTHOLE LOOKS LIKE.
Me: SHEESH.

Gallery

“You know, you’re very pretty,” that guy from my frat said as we waited for drinks. 

I chuckled and looked over my shoulder at him, “that’s it? You’re not terribly poetic, you know.”

“Oh, come on, Ivy,” he feigned dismay. “I do science. I don’t do overtures. You want a metaphor, fine? You’re as pretty as a Diels-Adler reaction.”

“A what?”

“A Diels-Adler reaction. It’s when…” From here, he explained something scientific that went completely over my head. Noticing my confusion, he cut himself off and said, “it’s really pretty. There. There’s your metaphor.”

I moved up closer to the bar and shook my head, “that’s a simile.”

“Okay, Ivy, okay, a simile,” he placed his hand on my hip. “You’re pretty like a barium cloud.”

“That’s another simile." 

"It’s beautiful, I promise,” he said and used his free hand to grab me a drink. 

I smiled, “I’ll take your word for it.” I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

I guess we all have our own sorts of poetries.

Gallery

That guy from my frat. I still haven’t named him. I promise, I’ll get around to it. I just can’t figure it out.

Somehow, later on in the evening, he and I wound up separated from the rest of our friends, smoking a joint and talking. I simultaneously impress and scare myself sometimes when I consider how natural inhaling has gotten for me, especially since I don’t smoke tobacco. I have a lot of things about myself that leave that sort of impression. One of those things is my bravado, which it appears he’ll never see the bottom of.

I just have fun being a little mean to him. I made him wait outside of a crowded ladies room for me to stand in line for a stall then fix my hair and makeup just to get a dance with me. I tease mercilessly. It’s just bad.

So, I decided to be kind and gentle when we were alone. Because ever since I was a kid I’ve been told I intimidate the opposite sex for one reason or another. And, because I didn’t want to completely crack the poor boy’s ego to bits; he’s a nice guy.

Of course, I still bullied a bit. He has a long-distance girlfriend from back home and, when pressed about the terms of his relationship, he gets a little evasive. This is something called a red flag in my book. So, finally, I poked, “what’s going on with your lady then, Mr. Fidelity?”

“We’re trying,” he shrugged.

“Trying what?” I asked.

“Trying,” he sighed, “but she has a different definition of fidelity than I did.”

“And what’s that?” I pried.

After all the assumptions I’d made about him being the one making some poor little unknowing girlfriend cry and get into polyamory, he was the one who had been cheated on. I felt a little bad for all the mocking I’d done. Poor kid had his heart broken and was just trying to salvage something. How could I tease?

Our conversation jumped around a bit before I formally apologized a second time. It wasn’t my fault, he repeated. He brushed some ash from my joint off of my thigh. “I don’t know how to ash stuff,” I admitted, “I don’t know how to flick it right. I was really lame in high school. And boring.”

“You’re not lame anymore,” he smiled.

We went and grabbed some 3 am munchie-medicine-food afterwards. I think we’re going to be friends. For real.